


I Think You'll Understand

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-21
Updated: 2006-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:37:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like so much else about the Lettern, their funerals are a surprise. A shy and formal race, when they invited Elizabeth and most of the main staff to the funeral of their clan matriarch as recognition both of their alliance and of the very last treaty the woman had negotiated, Rodney had not exactly been enthused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Think You'll Understand

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Ami.

Like so much else about the Lettern, their funerals are a surprise. A shy and formal race, when they invited Elizabeth and most of the main staff to the funeral of their clan matriarch as recognition both of their alliance and of the very last treaty the woman had negotiated, Rodney had not exactly been _enthused_. He'd expected tedium, mentally preparing himself for the Pegasus Galaxy equivalent of McKay family funerals, hours of itchy black suits and too-tight ties and conversations about the weather and his grandmother smacking him on the ass while telling anyone who will listen that her Mer is such a _good_ boy, really, so _smart_, you should hear him play the piano! and isn't it a _shame_ about poor Lilian, taken before her time, my dear, taken before her time.

Expectations mean little in the Pegasus Galaxy, of course, and when they step into the main square of the town, all that fabled Lettern reserve has vanished, and they are greeted with a wall of light and sound.

"Is this a funeral or a frat party?" John says, just before the Lettern descend on them. They're as polite as ever, offering greetings, tails spread out behind them as they bow low; but there is an air of frivolity to them, of joy, that Rodney can't recall seeing before. It seems that the Lettern take the 'celebrating' part of the 'funeral as celebrating a person's life' cliche seriously. Elna Tek's body lies in the middle of the square, swathed in linen and resting on several large boughs of greenery, but the rest of the townspeople seem to be ignoring that; they are dancing and drinking, making the strange, burbling noises that for the Lettern are something between laughter and music, and all of it is joyous.

They make their greetings to the Tek's family and to the heads of the other delegations, all of them moving with varying degrees of grace through the Lettern greeting ritual which Teyla taught them. It's over quickly, before Rodney's spine can begin to register more than the briefest of protests, and the new Tek tells them that the Chorus will begin later, after the Rejoicing.

The Rejoicing looks like a crazier version of the kind of African tribal dancing that Rodney is only familiar with from the National Geographic specials that he would watch back on Earth, bleary-eyed, in the hours between the time his doctoral supervisor told him to go home and the time it was safe to sneak back into the labs. Elizabeth and Lorne and Teyla and Ronon are dragged out into the thick of it, to the space near the centre of the square, where the packed dirt of the ground is lit up and filled with dozens of dancing bodies. Lorne and Teyla prove to be surprisingly graceful together, while Elizabeth and Ronon make up for any shortcoming in technique with a large amount of enthusiasm, swaying and clapping and stamping their feet, laughing and throwing back their heads in the torchlight.

John and Rodney decline, staying at the edge of the square, where the light is dimmer and the crush of people greater. Rodney's there because that is where the food is, and because he has a distinct aversion towards public embarrassments of a dancing nature; John because he has already acquired a hanger-on, literally, in the form of a tiny Lettern called Kenna. Still a toddler, but already almost more weight than John can take. He leans against the wall of one of the houses for support, while she wraps her legs and tail around his waist for balance, shyly tucks her head in to rest on his shoulder. They've only visited the planet a handful of times, but John has long since proved himself a favourite with Kenna.

She is fascinated with the way all of them speak, but especially with the way John laughs; still too young to have had much contact with humans, the difference is an oddity to her, his amusement amplifying hers, and it never ceases to make her shriek her approval. Fascinated, too, with his hands; next to the stubby paws of the Lettern, with their coating of hair and their short, sharp claws, human hands look strange, pale and vulnerable, like they shouldn't be capable of such strength, such dexterity. Kenna plays with them constantly, bending John's fingers this way and that, seeing how she can twist his fingers together, seeing how forcing them backwards makes him wince and choke off a curse.

Rodney isn't even trying to suppress his smirk at the fact that finally, John has managed to find a planet where the kids torture _him_, not Rodney; but once he has finished off his long, kebab-like thing of marinated meat and his hands are free, Kenna reaches out, lightning fast, and snags his left hand, pulling it towards her.

"Ow!" Rodney says, "Let go, you misbegotten brat," because her claws are needle-point sharp, and she doesn't yet know her own strength—he can feel five prickles of pain around his wrist where she's broken the skin.

Kenna just seems to find him amusing, tugging him toward her so that she can examine his fingers, compare the differences between hers and his and John's, and Rodney's not quite _enough_ of a bastard to want to make a pre-verbal toddler cry. So he steps that little bit closer to her obediently enough, if not entirely willingly, and submits to the way she examines his hand with infinite care. She turns it this way and that, inspecting the curve of his thumb and the edges of his fingernails with as much care as Rodney would use when examining the jumpers.

"Gathering empirical data, huh?" John says suddenly, and when Rodney looks up at him, startled, he finds that John is smiling at him. Rodney is even more startled to find that there is a matching smile on his own face, has been since Kenna first tugged him over.

"I find nothing inappropriate with training the young in scientific methods from the earliest of ages," Rodney says, trying not to squirm when Kenna sniffs at his wrist and licks at his palm with a tongue like wet sandpaper.

"Licking counts as a scientific method now, huh?" John drawls. "Didn't teach me that in school."

"I don't think much of what passes as knowledge in that brain of yours could have been taught in any reputable school," Rodney spits, not knowing whether to be more irritated or mollified when that makes John laugh.

Kenna squirms in delight at the sound of their bickering and their laughter, and takes advantage of their distraction to grab both of their hands and press them together, as if to compare the size of their palms, before curving them around one another. She leans back, cooing and burbling, as if to admire her handiwork, the way that Rodney's hand fits neatly into John's. Rodney is so busy tutting at her that it takes him a minute to realise that he is, essentially, standing in a dark corner, leaning in towards John, and holding hands with his very male, very much employed-by-the-US-military best friend in a public place, a public place where, knowing the laws of probability, Cadman is lurking with a smirk and a digital camcorder.

Rodney makes as if to pull away, but before he can do so, John's hand tightens around his. Rodney looks up, shocked, and feels his eyes widen even more at the expression in John's eyes.

"Well," John says, in that tone of voice of his which Rodney has come to realise isn't really casual, not at all, the one he reserves for when he's saying one thing and really, _really_ hoping you realise that he means another, "I guess I know what I'll be singing when it's time for the Chorus."

"Huh?" Rodney says intelligently, because John's grip is warm, and John's thumb is drawing circles over the inside of Rodney's palm, so softly that Rodney imagines he can feel every loop and whorl of John's thumbprint against his skin.

"Oh yeah," John says, "I'll tell you something. I think you'll understand."

"What?"

"When I say that something—" John's voice begins to rise in that weird, nasal thing he calls his singing voice, and Rodney has a moment of horror when he realises where John is going with this.

"Don't you _even_—" he begins, just as John wails out "I wanna hold your hand!", off-key and enthusiastic and _horrible_.

Kenna thinks it's almost as hilarious as John does—though Rodney doesn't know whether she likes John's musical stylings, or finds the Beatles as loathsome as Rodney does—and the two of them slump to the ground laughing, John still keeping tight hold of Rodney's hand so that Rodney has no choice but to follow them. John's eyes are bright, and he's laughing as he tries to teach Kenna the words of the song, his hand is warm against Rodney's, and when John is like this, Rodney sometimes doesn't know whether to rolls his eyes at him or to kiss him.

John looks over at him, and Rodney thinks he knows which one to go with, this time; he hums to himself (_And when I touch you, I feel_—), and when he leans in, he's singing into John's mouth.


End file.
